


Under Control

by JustSomeoneWhoLikesToWrite



Category: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)
Genre: Anger, Ares flirts through death threats, Character Study, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Persephone is full of rage, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSomeoneWhoLikesToWrite/pseuds/JustSomeoneWhoLikesToWrite
Summary: Ares is the best and worst thing for Persephone.Or a.k.a The conversation in the kitchen goes a little differently.
Relationships: Ares & Persephone (Lore Olympus), Ares/Persephone (Lore Olympus)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 263





	Under Control

Ares has no sense of personal space, Persephone thinks.

But he’s always been like that. Always been _tactile_. Likes to stand too close and touch too much, push her buttons so he can thread his fingers in the pink strands that grow. Holds her close as he twirls her around, dipping her in a move that’s more grapple than dance, presses even closer when her vines come to play. Pushes his palm against the thorns so he can feel the sting, the bite of her aggravation. The red around his eyes spreading slow like syrupy blood, smile so sharp that it threatens to split his cheeks.

Just like now, Ares steps up to her as he apologizes, towering over her tiny form with his bulk. Bends a bit so he can look Persephone in the eye, tells her he shouldn’t have said what he had said.

“You’re still angry, though,” Ares says, expression open and she stiffens, avoids his gaze.

Takes a breath as she closes her eyes.

“....I know,” she admits and a hair falls out of its place.

She opens her eyes again when she feels Ares step further into her space, the perpetual heat coming from him like burnt soil against her front. She can smell the ash that clings to him like a second-skin, the metallic undertones that can only come from chain mail and blood.

(He is made of rough and acidic things, things that can warp and corrode you until you’re something else entirely. Until you don’t know where the familiar ends and the new begins, if you’ve always been this putrid and he’s only bringing forth what has always been there, lurking beneath shadows and false pretenses.

War isn’t only on the battlefield.)

“I can feel it,” Ares mumbles, raises his fingers to press them between the valley of her breasts; the touch isn’t lewd but it still makes her sharply inhale, a flush spreading across her cheeks as pink peonies peek from behind her ears, “Calling out to me, as sweet as your siren song. I can _feel_ it, Kore, just _begging_ to be released.”

And then he’s looking into her eyes, watches with rapt attention at how the red slowly bleeds into the corners of the white and Persephone has to step back, away from his intensity. Ares’s hand hovers in the air between them.

(She’s always doing this, letting herself get caught up into him. Lets him dig into the deepest parts of her and peel back her skin, drag out all the ugliness. Lets herself get _angry_.

And the worst part is that it feels _good_ , so fucking good that she could burn the whole of Olympus down to the ground.)

Persephone frantically scrubs a hand across her scalp, lips pursed.

“I thought you weren’t going to use your powers on me again,” she mutters, looking a bit overwhelmed and Ares drops his hand to his side.

The look he gives her is solemn, heavy like the pressure of a losing battle. The smile that curls his lips is wry.

“That’s not me,” he says and it’s as true as his spear throw, precise, _brutal_ , slicing through the air with a finality that’s completely and utterly undeniable and Persephone curls into herself, “That’s all _you_ , spitfire.”

And then Ares is pressing into her space again, red slowly taking over his face. He thumbs at the swollen skin beneath her eye. Somewhere, a mortal bellows through rage-fueled tears. Purple begonias bloom and trees tremble.

“....You never did tell me why you cried,” he mumbles, running a scorching line down her cheek with his finger and Persephone shivers, “Did someone do this? Is that why you’re so _angry_?”

“It’s nothing,” she says but she’s avoiding his eyes, hair slipping out of her scrunchie, lengthening, growing, falling to tickle her calves, “It’s not- I’m _fine_ -“

“But you _aren’t_! You can’t lie to me, Kore, not about this,” Ares says fiercely, sincere in his tone, in the way he presses calloused fingertips to nape of her neck, pink spilling all over his hand, “Someone _hurt_ you. Someone hurt you bad and you’re fucking _furious_ over it.”

He’s all but steaming now, yellow drowned in the red and Persephone isn’t much better, hair to the floor and vines wrapping around her head and between his fingers like rope. The sickly-sweet smell of nerium flowers coats the air between them, sticking to sweat that forms upon their skin. Ares is hot enough to forge metal.

“Someone did hurt me,” Persephone whispers and it’s a secret and a confession all at once, her eyes squeezing shut, lashes clumped and beaded with morning dew; when Ares goes to wipe it, it sizzles into smoke from his knuckle.

“So _tell_ me. Tell me who did it and I’ll _kill_ them,” he growls, gravel crunched under battle-worn soles and he’s stepping even further into her space now, until she’s backed into the counter and he’s pressed against her front, chest to chest, nose to nose, soft curves against hard angles, “I’ll fucking _murder_ them. Bring them to you and have them kneel before you, force them to look into your eyes before I _slit_ their _throat_.”

“ _Ares_ ,” Persephone says and her gasp is a sweet spring breeze, tiny hands on his bicep and shoulder blade, light as dandelion seeds as she trails her fingers across his skin, leaves paths that tingle in her wake.

Ares presses closer, nosing at her. Her eyelids flutter and her lips quiver.

“....You’re trembling. Are you afraid of me?” he says, a soft sort of acceptance to the tone, like its _inevitable_ , like its nature, a son even his father doesn’t want and Persephone slowly shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers shakily and it’s the truth, red chrysanthemums slowing unfurling from her head like gifts, “Not of you.”

And then she’s looking up at him, bloody film over her eyes and _Ares_ is the one shivering. He drops to the floor, one knee planted to the ground, reminiscent of how they first met. His chin is on her belly and his fingers curl around her hips.

“A _name_ , Persephone. A name is all I need,” he says, watching how her nostrils flare, chest rising and falling in harsh pants, “Then I’ll bring them to you, so that you can do the honors.”

She grabs at his hair, fingers too tight and nails digging in, pollen thickening the air and Ares _groans_ , the sound deep from within his throat. She keeps her hold onto him even as she floats up, eyes narrowed and lips curled back from her teeth, her hair falling around her face like a veil. He doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful.

“ _Apollo_ ,” Persephone hisses like a curse and Ares grins, more teeth than smile.


End file.
